


The Devil You Know

by maggiedragon



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Complete, Friendship, Gen, Gun Violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9336410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiedragon/pseuds/maggiedragon
Summary: Sergeant Niall Cavanaugh of the NYPD did not expect the Devil to have such impeccable taste. There was, however, no other explanation for the finely dressed middle aged man who had just appeared in the chair across from his desk with a rush of air and black smoke.Percival Graves has never let anything as unimportant as the Rappaport Law get in the way of doing his job.





	1. 1921-1922

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Не так страшен чёрт](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12522156) by [just_speranza (that_adler_girl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_adler_girl/pseuds/just_speranza)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergeant Niall Cavanaugh of the NYPD did not expect the Devil to have such impeccable taste. There was, however, no other explanation for the finely dressed middle aged man who had just appeared in the chair across from his desk with a rush of air and black smoke.
> 
> Percival Graves has never let anything as unimportant as the Rappaport Law get in the way of doing his job.

Sergeant Niall Cavanaugh of the NYPD did not expect the Devil to have such impeccable taste. There was, however, no other explanation for the finely dressed middle aged man who had just appeared in the chair across from his desk with a rush of air and black smoke. 

“Mother Mary…” He crossed himself reflexively but the man was still there, still sitting in the one of the most expensive looking black coats Niall had ever laid eyes on. In fact, he even looked amused. 

He went for his gun next.

 _”Colloportus_ ” said the Devil and the desk drawer where his sidearm rested refused to open, as if it was locked. 

Damn. “You’d be better off looking like a hot blond dish, you know,” he told the thing-- man?-- Devil?-- across from him with all the bravado he could muster. 

The Devil snorted and lifted an eyebrow expressively. “That sounds like a waste of my time and potion ingredients.” 

“Well, you’re doing a damn poor job of the whole temptation and enticement business then.” 

The Devil pushed a hand through his slicked back hair and Niall noticed that the coat wasn’t entirely black but trimmed instead with fine white silk at the sleeves. Make that _the_ most expensive black coat he had ever seen. “Perhaps I should explain myself. My name is Percival Graves and I have a proposition for you.” Surprisingly, it was not for Niall’s immortal soul. Graves wanted access to files, to occasionally have Niall tell him if a particular individual was spotted in the neighborhood or conduct an interview. 

It all seemed trivial, small potatoes for someone capable of appearing in the middle of the Sixth Ward’s basement at 3 a.m. as if by magic and Niall told him as much. 

“My talents aside, occasionally nothing can compensate for the raw manpower of the NYPD. There are...laws and rules for my kind that I cannot violate as well. There would be consequences if I were to do some of these things myself.”

“That’s cryptic.”

“One of those rules limits how much you can know.” Graves spread his hands in what could have been an apologetic gesture if he’d seemed in the slightest contrite. “In return, I’ll help you solve cases other people can’t.You seem like a man of imagination; I doubt I need to explain how my talents might be useful. I assure you, your captain will have a much easier time seeing past your religious issue--” and he sketched a poor copy of Niall’s cross in the air “--when you’ve made the reputation of his department.” 

His Ma had never mentioned the Devil’s fashion sense and she had also never mentioned how hard he was to resist halfway through the night shift in a dead end job. NIall thought about other men, who’d left the academy at the same time as he and were further along in the ranks. He thought about the small and worn apartment he shared with two flatmates. He thought about Breanna Lynch’s strawberry blond hair and freckles, her laugh and her smile, the pearl-and-sapphire engagement ring on layaway at Macy’s. 

“Deal,” Niall Cavanaugh said and held his hand to the Devil. He had expected it to be cold, to be crushing, but the man’s grip was solid, palm faintly callused. 

”I’d like the files on any warehouse fires this past year. Particularly any with unknown cause.” Graves gestured with two fingers across the desk. “You’ll find a sigil on your holster. When you’re alone and you have something for me, touch it and I’ll know to come.” He paused and the dark brows furrowed, as if thinking intently for a moment. “If you are ever truly in danger, touch it as well. You may not remember my help, but I will come.” 

Before Niall could ask him _how_ precisely he was supposed to do anything with his holster when Graves had somehow locked the desk drawer, the Devil vanished in the same rush of air and smoke as he had appeared. 

 

It worked. At least, as far as Niall could tell. Percival Graves never seemed annoyed with the information he provided; Niall’s arrest record had gone up. The captain had noticed and moved him to the day shift. While it wasn’t a raise, at least he could sleep at a normal hour. 

Three months after he had struck his deal, one of his informants told him when Red Jacob was bringing in fresh whiskey. Bathtub gin was well enough for some, but there was real money to be made in European imports--- Irish whiskey, real champagne-- but the risks were even higher. Lose a car of moonshine and you were out a few hundred dollars of produce and the car. Lose a crate of whiskey and the loss would cost you _thousands_ \--- and if you were in Red Jacob’s crew, maybe your life. 

He took a small squad to a warehouse late at night, right by the docks. It was cold; the wind off the docks cut right through Niall’s coat. It brought in the sea mist as well, smelling of salt and smoke from the ships that passed in the darkness. There was only a single watchman, walking his rounds by flashlight-- the yellow light swinging back and forth, a jerky half-circle that matched his steps. Niall signaled to his men to hold their positions as he waited, counting the steps until the watchman had passed.

He slipped out behind the man and was met with a hail of gunfire. The misty night lit up with muzzle flash and something threw Niall backwards. It felt like he’d been hit in the chest with a baseball bat before there was a searing pain and he was on his back, struggling to breathe. The squad was returning fire but he knew what Red Jacob was doing. The fucker had been a sniper in the war--- shoot the first, leave him out in no-man’s land to rattle the enemy, then pick off his comrades who couldn’t bear the cries. 

Niall had been in the war. He _hated_ snipers. 

The fire from the warehouse had died down and he could hear his men whisper among themselves. Had they done it? Was it clear? They hit the warehouse with another rattle of fire. Niall moved, rolling onto his stomach with a groan of pain. Blood filled his mouth from the movement and he spat. He started to pull himself towards cover. Red Jacob wouldn’t let his bait get away. If the squad had truly managed to deal with his guards--

Another bullet shattered his shoulder blade and gunfire erupted again. 

Niall was having trouble focusing. His right side was one giant mass of burning pain. Really? After two years of war, shot in the goddamn back? To hell with that. He reached a shaking hand to his hip, to the regulation holster with the panther sigil that had appeared on it three months later and pressed his thumb against it. 

“You want my soul, you better hurry the hell up,” he told empty air. 

Niall was standing in Red Jacob’s warehouse staring at his open palm. The sniper himself and six of his guards were handcuffed on the floor and they were surrounded He was holding two spent, twisted bullets in his palm. Written on the same palm in a sweeping, elegant script was _You’re welcome. G._

“Please tell me I punched you for that cock of the walk nonsense you pulled,” he told Graves next time he saw him, waving his right palm illustratively. “You’re _welcome_?”

“You were barely conscious.” Graves told him. “You spent most of your time telling me to stay the hell out of no-man’s-land.” A small smile quirked his lips. “And that you hated snipers. In colorful terms.” 

“Not an uncommon opinion.” 

“Trust me; I know.” The look of annoyance and distaste on Graves’ face made Niall wonder if he spoke from experience. 

“You _fought_?”

“We weren’t supposed to. Some of us did anyway.”

“You have a problem doing what you’re told, don’t you.”

Graves’ grin was a blend of mischief and ferocity. “Only when it’s bullshit,” he said and vanished. 

Niall stared at the empty space in the alley where the Devil had been previously. It occurred to him that that, cryptic as it was, that was the first time Graves had volunteered any information about himself. 

 

Their partnership continued and it wasn’t as terse as it was before. Niall learned that Graves was some kind of cop--- “You sure as hell ain’t a beat cop. You dress fancier than my boss.”--- that he’d lost a brother in the war-- that’d been promoted out of the field within the past year or so. 

Niall’s raise paid for the pearl-and-sapphire ring. He’d meant to wait until after Christmas, to take Breanna somewhere and propose with a love letter from one of those novels she loved. He’d even borrowed the book from the library and copied out one that he liked. But at Christmas Eve service she wore a navy blue dress trimmed with white lace and pearl drop earrings and Niall couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Bree.” Niall pulled her to one side and fumbled with his wallet until he found the ring. “Breanna Grace Lynch--”

He didn’t get the rest out or even get entirely down on bended knee before Breanna had tackled him, shrieking her assent so loudly that the priest had come running from the sanctuary, afraid someone was getting killed. 

They were married in May and when Niall returned to his work, it took precisely ten minutes for an irate Percival Graves to appear in his office. 

“Where. Were. You.” he said in a calm voice that made Niall immediately pity anyone who actually worked for the man and had the bad luck to piss him off. 

Niall, however, didn’t. 

“Good morning to you too.” 

“I have been trying to reach you for two weeks. Where. Were. You.” 

“I feel bad for your subordinates. You must scare the hell out of them.” Niall started to sort through his inbox.

“Oh, if you were my subordinate, I would fire you right now.” 

“Well, I _ain’t_!” Niall had gotten sick of it. “I got married, you ass and I don’t need to clear it with you when I go on my damn honeymoon. Now what do you want?” 

Graves had said no more about it but spoken of business instead. When Niall came into his office for his shift the next day, however, and opened his desk drawer, he’d found an envelope he didn’t recognize inside. He opened it. Inside was a small notecard of thick creamy paper; Niall knew that Breanna’s paperback novels would have called it vellum or parchment with Graves’ same swooping script. _My apologies and my congratulations. G._ There were two twenty dollar bills inside as well, so crisp and so new that Niall had borrowed the counterfeiting pen from Vice and checked them. 

Percival Graves was not as much as an ass as he probably thought he was. And Niall had never known the Devil to apologize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun historical notes!  
> Niall's unit when he fought in the first world war was the 106th Infantry Regiment.  
> The love letter he'd copied out is Captain Wentworth's letter to Anne Elliott in Persuasion.  
> $40 in 1926 is the equivalent of roughly $500 now.  
> Let me know what you think in the comments or hit me up at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/


	2. 1923

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall's men began to call him “Lucky” Cavanaugh for his knack at finding leads, evidence, witnesses. He’d told Graves about the nickname and the man had arched an eyebrow with amusement mixed with disdain. 
> 
> “I’m almost insulted it took them so long to notice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: implied threat of murder, directed against a very young child
> 
> So I am incapable of writing short things. Apparently. It grew more plot.

Niall's superiors promoted him again and it came with an office that wasn't in the basement any more. His men began to call him “Lucky” Cavanaugh for his knack at finding leads, evidence, witnesses. He’d told Graves about the nickname and the man had arched an eyebrow with amusement mixed with disdain. 

“I’m almost insulted it took them so long to notice.”

Niall had been about to point out that it was better than the other description of his odd luck, which had been Devil Cavanaugh, but Graves had grinned before he could even say a word. 

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” he said but vanished before Niall could say a word.

Breanna took a part-time job working as a secretary for her uncle. Between the two of them, they had enough to move to a bigger place--- one with a nursery.

 

Red Jacob’s trial began in October of 1923. Niall wore his best suit to the courtroom, though to be fair, it was his only good suit. He’d gotten married in it and unless Breanna’s cooking made him inordinately fat, he planned to be buried in it.

Jacob Brahm was only red by reputation, Niall noticed. He was brown-haired and looked slighter of build than he had remembered, though his belligerent slouch and the bailiff towering over him likely was skewing Niall’s perception. He was still though, impossibly still and steady and there were moments when Niall wasn’t even sure that the sniper turned smuggler was breathing. It was disconcerting and Niall avoided meeting the other man’s gaze, tugging at his tie as he waited to be called to the stand. 

It took most of the day; Jacob’s lawyer was meticulous, though at times he seemed more emotional than his calmly staring client did, reminding the jury that they were looking at “a war hero. A war hero!”

“Nothing heroic about shooting a man from a mile away,” he muttered. Jacob must have heard, because he turned the cool gaze on him. Niall suppressed a shiver. If he wasn’t already sure which side the Devil was working for, he would have sworn that Red Jacob had long ago sold his soul.

 

The sun was starting to set as Niall left the courtroom and caught the subway home. They’d barely started his testimony, so it was likely that the trial would drag on. 

When he got home, the lock on their apartment door was broken and it stood partially open. Niall’s blood went cold and he tasted metallic fear and adrenaline on his tongue. His hand went to his side arm and he flipped the holster strap off, then the safety. “Bree?” he called. 

Nothing in the house seemed to be disturbed-- the large bay window that had made Bree fall in love with the place was unbroken. The gardenia was undisturbed and her copy of A Lost Lady sitting on the the cushion there, bookmark still tucked inside. Her keys were gone from the small side table in the entryway as was the canvas bag she used for groceries. A piece of yellow legal paper sat there as well. _Running late! At the store._

His eyes had finally adjusted to the dim light. There was something glinting on the kitchen table. Note still in one hand, other on his pistol, Niall went over to it. Three gleaming bullets stood upright on it. He recognized the type. 30-06, brass casing, soft tipped. He knew them intimately; it was the cartridge his Enfield had used in the war. It was also, however, what a sniper would load into their Springfield M1906. 

Breanna’s absence wasn’t reassuring. She’d gone late to the store, gone recently, which meant someone was watching his home. 

Blood pounded in his ears, fear and rage and adrenaline. 

“Cavanaugh.” There was a distant voice. “Cavanaugh!”

Niall snapped out of it. Graves was standing across the table from him. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been pressing the the panther sigil on his holster. He took his hand away and saw that he'd been pressing hard enough that he’d left white lines temporarily marked on his flesh.

“What is it?” Graves said.

“Red fucking Jacob.” Niall gestured at the bullets. His hand was shaking and he scowled, closing it into a fist to hide the motion. To have threatened his wife, his _family_...

“You have a nemesis,” Graves observed. "Because of the trial?"

Niall nodded. "Fucker doesn't want me to testify." He’d called Graves here in his terror. It couldn’t hurt to ask. “ I don't suppose your talents might have a solution to this?”

Graves opened his mouth and Niall could tell that he was about to say no, to cite the ambiguous rules that seemed to dictate his existence and interaction with mortals.

“Niall, did you break the lock?” Bree was standing in the doorway. The canvas shopping bag was slung on one shoulder, a small bundle of leeks protruding out from one corner and she held their four month old daughter Rebecca in one arm.

Niall saw Graves do the calculations- the three bullets on the table, no longer just a random number, the child in her mother's arms, the fury at the threat to her, and the moment when the rules became nothing but bullshit. “You didn’t tell me you had a daughter,” he said without a trace of the momentary rage that had swept across his face. 

“I don’t tell you lots of things,” Niall muttered. He reached for the bullets and shot a pleading look at Graves for silence but Breanna had already entered the room. She'd already seen. 

“Niall Ardan Cavanaugh, what in hell’s bells did you get us into now?” Despite the fierceness in her tone, her voice shook and she let the groceries slip off her shoulder and onto the floor. 

“Bree. Please. It's alright." 

“Is this that smuggler?” She glanced again at the bullets at the table; her panic built. “You were at court today for his trial. Is that what this is about?” Her hands were shaking. “For Christ’s sake, Niall, come take her from me before I drop her!”

Niall complied, taking Rebecca as his wife sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. 

Graves quietly picked up the groceries and went into the kitchen, leaving them alone. 

“And who is that and why is he in our home, Niall? You don't even know anyone that posh!” 

“One thing at a time, love,” Niall wrapped one arm around her shaking shoulders, holding Rebecca with the other. “Yes. It’s probably Red Jacob. His people are trying to keep me from testifying.” Breanna leaned against him, arms sliding around his waist as she steadied herself against him. 

Niall could hear Graves in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets. He knew Graves was a man, even if his superstitious brain sometimes forgot, but he was one that appeared and disappeared in thin air and read minds. He could make Niall forget, seal drawers, and etch symbols into leather with a gesture. The idea of him doing something that trivial, that domestic gave Niall a headache. 

“We’ll be safe. I'll find us a place to stay, tell the judge I’ve been threatened," he told Breanna. "It'll be alright." 

“You’ll stay here,” Graves said softly, having reemerged. “And no one will harm you. I ‘ll see to it.”

“And who are you?” Breanna turned to look at him. The fear had faded into confusion. "We didn't quite get to that part."

“My name is Percival Graves. I'm an associate of your husband.” He paused for a moment and then sighed. “ I also possess certain talents that can guarantee your safety.” 

“What does that even mean?” Breanna asked but Graves only gestured behind her without answering. 

There was a sudden heady floral scent. Niall glanced behind him to see the gardenia, which bloomed in early summer, filling with buds which simultaneously bursting into bloom. The flowers were creamy white, fully developed and the fragrance permeated the room. 

Breanna turned back to Niall, eyes wide. “Lucky Cavanaugh,” she said and the fear was back in her voice.

”Bree, he’s the only reason I'm not dead,” Niall told her. “He saved my life when we raided Red Jacob’s workshop.” 

“I suppose I owe both you and her a better explanation.” Graves shook his head. Dapper coat and perfectly cut hair or no, the man suddenly looked tired and uncertain. He sat down and was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “I am...the closest analogue would be a witch, though you still associate that with the Devil. My abilities don't come from some….pact with infinite evil. They’re as natural as your red hair or your husband's blue eyes. Some people have them and others don't.” 

“Then why do you have all these rules, if it's so natural?” Niall asked.

“One hundred and twenty years ago, people like me were murdered for being what we were because one of us did magic for a No-Maj. Um. Someone without magic. There was a law passed to keep it from ever happening again. It’s a crime for me to be talking to you at all, let alone actually telling you anything about my kind. I tend to think the law is strict enough that it often undermines itself. As we adhere to the letter, we ignore the spirit of it, but it is the law." He spread his hands. "So there you have it." 

Breanna watched Graves for a long moment. “Do you trust him, Niall?”

“I do.” Even more now. It wasn’t the truth that Graves had told, though that had certainly helped, but the sense of the man and his measure that he had gotten. Graves was doing what was right as best as he could, even when it was neither easy nor apparently legal. 

“That’s enough for me.” Breanna held her hand out. “Breanna Cavanaugh. Call me Bree.” 

“A pleasure.” He shook her hand. 

“Likewise.”

“So how is this working?” Niall turned the conversation back to Red Jacob. If Graves could help, he wanted it done now. Standing with his back to a window with three rifle rounds still on his kitchen table was making him uneasy.

“Do you have something you always wear?” Graves asked. 

“My wedding band, “ Niall answered. “Would that work?”

“I don't ever take mine off either,” Breanna added.

Graves nodded. “Can I have them for a minute?” Once he had them, he held them both in his hand for a moment as he quietly ran through a series of words that Niall could neither hear nor understand. “There. If someone means you immediate harm, the rings will heat up as a warning to you. I’ll know as well and I'll come immediately.” 

Breanna slid her wedding band back on and then her engagement ring. “Is that it?”

Graves glanced at the broken door and rose. “I’ll fix the door for you as well and give your home some protection as well. I imagine you don't particularly want it set ablaze.”

“No, not particularly,” Niall said.

Breanna rose. “I should start dinner if we're to eat at a normal hour.” She kissed the corner of Niall’s mouth. “Will you watch Rebecca while I cook? And tell Percival to stay for dinner.” Before either man could protest, she had vanished into the kitchen. 

Graves opened his mouth and then shut it for a long moment before finally finding words. “Apparently we're on a first name basis now,” he commented. 

“Apparently.” Niall grinned. “Percy.”

“I will drop you in the Hudson and leave you to drown,” Graves told him but there was a hint of a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The M1906 Springfield rifle that Red Jacob likely would have used in World War I is still used in Marine shooting competitions to this day! Niall's attitude towards him is actually fairly historically accurate as well-- snipers only became heroic in the last few decades or so. They were so hated that a captured enemy sniper was likely to be shot on the spot rather than imprisoned. 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments or come say hello at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/


	3. 1924-1925

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Merlin, Niall. Do you _have_ to get shot at when I’m in a meeting?” Graves came around and crouched in front of the cop. He had a--- stick?-- in his left hand, black, a foot and change long with a silver band and silver end cap. 
> 
> “So sorry. I’ll have Red Jacob clear his next hit with your secretary.” Niall nodded at the stick. “Were you beating your subordinates at this meeting?” It wasn’t a nightstick; it was far too slender for such a use. 
> 
> “My superiors. And I wish.” Graves muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> implications of Gradence if you squint?
> 
> CN: referenced child abuse

Red Jacob’s trial dragged on into January of 1924. Late that month, Niall got a call out for a domestic disturbance. He was standing at the door, about to knock when his wedding ring suddenly seared hot. He dove for cover an instant before before a shotgun blast blew through where he had been standing. 

There was no cover in the hallway, so Niall scrambled back as he went for his pistol. A shotgun was close quarters; the hallway would absorb some of the blast; distance would weaken the impact of the rest. Shit. With a shoddily constructed building like this, the buckshot could possibly go through the walls. His pistol rounds certainly would. 

“NYPD! Get away from the doors!” Was there even anyone in this building? 

Clearly there was at least one person, as a lean blonde man with a scar distorting the corner of his mouth stepped out of the doorway and fired at him again. Niall dove again and swore as he felt shot burn into his leg. He snapped off a shot in return but it was off-target, unsteady from having hit the ground. 

“ _Accio!_ ” The shotgun flew out of the blond man’s hands as he went to reload, hurtling over NIall’s head and he heard it clatter to the ground behind him in pieces, like invisible hands had field stripped it in mid-air. The barrel cap rolled by next to his hand. Red Jacob’s man turned and started to run. _”Stupefy.”_ A crack of white light hit the man and he collapsed. 

“Merlin, Niall. Do you _have_ to get shot at when I’m in a meeting?” Graves came around and crouched in front of him. He had a--- stick?-- in his left hand, black, a foot and change long with a silver band and silver end cap. 

“So sorry. I’ll have Red Jacob clear his next hit with your secretary.” Niall nodded at the stick. “Were you beating your subordinates at this meeting?” It wasn’t a nightstick; it was far too slender for such a use. 

“My superiors. And I wish.” Graves muttered, then followed Niall’s gaze. “It’s a wand. I can do magic without it; it’s just harder. How badly are you hurt?”

Niall examined his calf. Three pockmarked holes were oozing red out of the muscle. He flexed the muscle and hissed at the sharp stab of pain and the fresh rivulets of blood. “I’ll live. Ain’t taking Bree dancing for awhile though.”

“Yes, you are.” Graves tugged Niall’s shin towards him, rolling the pant leg up and the sock down to get at the blood-streaked skin. “You might be tired after this.” He rested the tip of the stick-- _wand_ on Niall’s skin and half-sang, half-chanted something in a low baritone. Niall’s shin went hot and one of the wounds closed from the inside out, popping the deformed shotgun pellet into Graves’ outstretched hand. It was a moment’s work for Graves to do the other two. 

“If you even try writing anything on my palm, I will shoot you,” Niall told him, but took the bits of metal from him anyway. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Graves stood and helped him up. “Do you want to arrest him or should I drop him someplace?”

“I should take him in.” Niall reached for his handcuffs. He walked with Graves to the end of the hallway where the man was still unconscious. 

“He needs to not remember me.” Graves stopped him right as Niall was about to sling the unconscious handcuffed man over his shoulders. 

“Sure.” Niall waited as Graves cast his spell. “My turn now, right?” 

Graves paused, then frowned, and shook his head. “No. I won’t. Not to you or Breanna. Not anymore.” There was a moment of uncertainty. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Niall remembered how hesitant Graves had been to expose himself, to explain what he was, the murders of one hundred and forty years ago. “We are,” he said, and extended his hand to the other man. “And I won’t betray you. I swear it.”

Graves shook his hand. “Thank you.” 

 

There would be no more attempts on Niall’s life by Red Jacob’s gang. When Niall asked if Graves had anything to do with it, the man had just smiled. “It’s surprising how quickly you lot think you see the Devil.” 

 

Graves began to come by the apartment rather than Niall’s office after he had to ball up the memory-- “The word is _obliviate_ , Niall”-- of another detective who happened to walk in at the wrong moment. It was easier to ensure their privacy and Graves freely admitted that Breanna was a better cook than he was.

“Even with the magic?” 

“Even with the magic.” 

“Jesus, Percival.” 

In July, Graves arrived in his house in the evening about a week after Rebecca’s first birthday with a Raggedy Ann doll tucked into his coat. “Red hair like her mother,” he explained to Niall, showing him. 

“Is that Percival?” Breanna called. “One of these days, you’re going to show up and I won’t have enough food for you!” 

“Entirely false,” NIall mouthed. 

“I could fix it even if it was,” Graves said.

“Lucky bastard.” 

Rebecca came wobbling into the living room as they talked, followed by Breanna. 

Graves crouched. “Hey sweetie. Someone told me it was your birthday…”

“Perce!” Rebecca shouted, wobbling towards him and falling on his knee. Graves lit up with a smile of incredible joy that Niall had never quite seen on him before. He looked ten years younger. 

“Well that’s new,” Niall commented to Bree.

“Her saying his name?”

“Percival liking children.” 

“Who said I didn’t like children?” Graves protested from the floor where he was showing the Raggedy Ann doll to Rebecca.

“You’re kind of an ass. I just assumed.” 

“I like children,” Graves repeated. 

“I gathered.” Niall gestured at the two of them. Rebecca was leaning on his knee as she reached for the toy. “Given that she can call you Percy without threat of drowning.” 

“Perce. Not Percy.” Graves shrugged, moving the doll around a little bit for her. “It’s a family nickname. Cador-- my brother-- couldn’t say Percival until he was almost four. It stuck.” He stood as Rebecca toddled over to Breanna to show off her new toy. “It’s sort of nice, actually. I didn’t get to see my niece at this age. She was born a couple months after I left to fight and she was three and a half when I got back.

“When did you go over?” Niall asked. Nearly four years was far longer than the United States had been involved in the war.

“I went over in 1915.” Graves stood and put his hands in his pockets. “Cador was on the _Lusitania_ when it went down. I got angry; went over and volunteered with the Brits. Izzy was born that June.” 

“No children of your own, though?” Breanna asked. She picked up Rebecca and balanced her on a hip. “Oof, you’re getting big!”

Graves shook his head but volunteered no information. 

“Wife? Someone special?” 

There was the faintest flicker of something like unease on Graves’ face just for a moment. “Presume you don’t mean my sister and my niece, so no. Confirmed bachelor, I believe is the term. Or insufferable ass, if you ask the last woman I dated.” He flashed a smile that was less genuine than earlier.

“So did you show up just for the free dinner or do you have something for me?” Niall changed the subject. 

“I did.” Graves reached into his coat. “There’s someone I want you to keep an eye out for. Hopefully he’s not coming to the States, but…” He handed Niall a photograph of a man who looked like a scowling pale reflection of Graves. He had the same haircut, but it was platinum blond and he seemed to be somewhat heavier. 

“Who is he?” 

“His name is Gellert Grindelwald. He’s…a fascist. That’s probably the best term. He’s causing no end of trouble in Europe and although he seems content to remain there, keep an eye out for him.” Graves glanced up from the photo. “Do _not_ engage him. I’ve told you many wizards will restrain themselves to avoid giving themselves away. He doesn’t care about that.” 

“Got it,” Niall tucked the photograph away. He thought about asking why Graves had seemed so squirrelly, but it wasn't really his business. “I’ll pass it on to my watch; see if I can get the Captain to bite.” 

 

Niall was a lieutenant now, in charge of the first watch in the Sixth Ward. His captain listened, usually, when Niall brought something to his attention and he’d caught the man occasionally declaiming about “You know, not all of them Papists…” Niall had rolled his eyes and not said a word. Apparently Catholics were just fine as long as they were working with the Devil. 

 

He and Breanna had been saving as much as they could and in the beginning of 1925, they made an offer to their landlord to buy the apartment outright. He was hoping to move more into commercial property-- renting lofts to garment factories--- and he was looking for a way to shift capital. 

 

In July, as they celebrated Becca’s second birthday, Breanna told him they were expecting another child. 

 

In December, Graves appeared in their house, flushed with cold and coated in sleet. Breanna was at the doctor’s with her mother, so Niall had taken the afternoon off to watch Rebecca. 

“You drip on the floor and Bree will shoot you with my service pistol,” Niall told him. He was sitting in the bay window, reading a book to Rebecca. 

“Hello to you too.” Graves muttered something that Niall guessed was a spell and the sleet vanished from his clothes. 

“I don’t have anything for you,” Niall said. “Every watch is on the lookout for your Gell--- goddamnit. Your Mr. Pineapple and no one has seen him.” 

Graves blinked and a smile quirked on his mouth. “Mr. Pineapple?”

“The night shift started calling him it. It’s stuck.” 

“Well, that’s probably a good sign.” Graves shook his head. “No. I have a question for you. How much evidence would you need to take a child away from their parent?”

Niall’s head jerked up. “What?”

“Just hypothetically.”

“No. You don’t get to ask that kind of question without an explanation.” Every instinct Niall had was on alarm-- police and parental alike. 

Graves hesitated.

“I mean it, Percival.” 

Graves sat down at the table across from him. “I have a friend,’ he began. 

The other man seemed hesitant and almost protective. “What’s her name?” Niall asked. 

Graves glanced at him. “His. And it’s Credence. He’s like me; he has magical talent, but somehow he didn’t...end up in our world. He was adopted by a No-Maj woman and she…” There was a flicker of rage on his face. “She hurts him.”

“How old is he? If he’s sixteen, seventeen, emancipation might be an easier route.” Credence was a strange name, but he supposed it wasn’t odder than Percival. Or Gelbert? Gellert? Whatever Mr. Pineapple's real name was. 

“No, that’s not it. He’s twenty-one. He’s old enough to leave if he wanted. I’ve offered to help but...he won’t leave his little sister. She’s eight and his mother is almost as awful to her.” 

“Jesus. And you can’t just ball up her memory, I suppose.”

Graves shook his head and Niall could tell how concerned the other man was because he didn’t bother to correct his terminology. “She’s got some magical ancestry of her own, but no power. She’d be hard to Obliviate and…I really can’t draw attention to myself with this group. In any way.” 

“Why?” Niall knew there were rules, but Graves had seen fit to disregard them before when someone’s safety was at stake. 

“Have you heard of the Second Salemers?” 

“Of course. Who hasn’t gotten a pamphlet shoved at them by one of those luna--” Niall trailed off. “Maybe lunatic is the wrong word.” He’d never given much truck to the cluster of religious fanatics unless it was to ask them to move along or warn the leader--- who must be the mother-- that she was disturbing the peace. Even though they were, apparently, at least partially right. Witches did live among them. And Niall had one in his living room, biting his lip and fretting about a Second Salemer boy. 

“You remember I told you that one hundred and forty years ago, we were put in danger because one of us did magic for a No-Maj?” When Niall nodded, Graves continued. “That No-Maj’s name was Bartholomew Barebone. Mary Lou is one of his descendants. And she still believes just as fervently as he did. It’s too dangerous or I would have taken Credence and his sister away already.”

“Especially if he’s like you. Does she know?” 

“Not for sure, but I think she suspects.” 

Niall shook his head. “I don’t know that much about the details of the law. There’s a special division for cases like this. I’ll pull up her file and go see a friend of mine in the division.” He bit his lip. “Would either of them be willing to come into the station and make a statement? If there are….visible injuries, that will help as well, especially if there haven’t been complaints against her.” 

“I don’t know. I’d have to talk to Credence, convince him.” Graves ran a hand through his hair. “Just...let me know when you find anything out.” 

Niall nodded. “Can you stay for dinner?”

Graves shook his head. “I have to get back. We’re in talks with the ICW--- a group of wizards from all over the world. Grindelwald is a problem. They want a joint task force.”

“So I shouldn’t arrange to get shot.” 

Graves quirked a smile but he looked tired. “Well no. But I’d come if you did.” He rose. “I should go.” 

Niall stood and touched his shoulder, squeezing it faintly. “We’ll find a way,” he told him. “I’m not going to let a child be hurt. I’d do it even if you weren’t my friend.” 

Graves’ smile was a little more genuine. “Thank you, Niall,” he said and vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:  
> "to ball up" is actual 1920s slang for "to mess up."  
> I did some quick research and have been unable to determine when a special victims division was established by the NYPD, but if anyone knows more about it then please let me know!
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments or hit me up at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/


	4. March through August, 1926

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t until Niall was nearly there that he realized his feet were taking him to Pike Street and the Second Salemer Church. If Graves wasn’t gone, maybe Credence Barebone would know what had happened. If he was, then Niall would take up what Graves had wanted done. He couldn’t give the Salemer boy the wizarding world, not like Graves might have been able to do, but he could give the brother and sister a way to escape the hell they were in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time, but I felt like I needed to split 1926 into two chapters. There is a lot that is going to happen and I think it would be unwieldy to compress it all into one chapter.

Niall and Breanna didn’t see Graves as much for the next handful of months. Whatever was happening in Europe had gotten worse, apparently, and then Bree’s mother stayed with them for a month after Breanna gave birth.

“Does he have friends he doesn’t have to lie about, Niall?” Bree asked him one night. She’d just finished nursing and Niall was carefully setting Evan in the crib they had set up next to the bed. 

“I don’t know,” Niall admitted, coming to join her in the bed. 

“I worry about him sometimes. I know that’s silly, but...magic or no, he doesn’t have anyone to take care of him. Not like you do me.” 

“And I love you for it.” Niall leaned over and kissed her. “You are brave and kind and beautiful, Breanna Lynch Cavanaugh, and I’m still not quite sure why you married me.”   
Bree blushed. “Now go to sleep, _macushla_ , before I decide waking Evan is worth having my way with you.” 

“Yes’m,” Niall said and obeyed. 

 

In March, Graves appeared in the living room again. He was holding a suitcase this time, pristine black leather with brass fastenings. “Niall?”

Niall stuck his head out of the kitchen and put a finger over his lips before beckoning Graves in. “Sorry. Both of the kids are finally asleep.” He looked a little bedraggled and had one of Breanna’s floral aprons tied around his waist. 

“How are they?” 

“Becca’s teething and every time she wakes up, it wakes up Evan. But they’re alright. I think. Just tired and cranky.” She glanced up at Percival. “ You’ve not met Evan yet, have you? Niall, do you want to--” 

Graves raised a hand. “Don’t wake him on my account. You both look exhausted.” 

“It’ll get better once Becca’s teeth are in.” Breanna told him. “I told Niall I could cook but…”

“You’ve been taking care of them all day. You get to sit down for a little bit,” Niall answered. “My captain only has figurative tantrums.” 

Graves came over to where Niall was chopping potatoes, onions and carrots and put a hand on his wrist, stopping the knife. He waved his other over the remaining vegetables, which peeled and diced themselves in a flurry of motion. 

“Thought you said you couldn’t cook.” 

“Can’t. That’s actually only a smaller application of the same spell you’d use to hurt someone.” There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. “And I am extremely good at hurting people.” 

“...and not so good at fixing them.” Niall dumped the vegetables into the roasting pan and tossed some salt, pepper and herbs on top of them. Breanna mouthed _more salt_ at him and he obeyed, adding another few dashes. Graves had said that before about his talents, that he was better at offensive magic than healing, but it had never been with any vitriol. “Your second Salemer boy.”

“He’s not my--” Graves stopped. “I still can’t convince him to talk to you. Or to have Modesty do it. It took him months to trust me. And you’re a cop and a stranger and you want to arrest his mother.”

“You’ll just have to keep at it,” Niall said. “I talked to my friend in that division. He says that forcing the issue will do more harm than good.” He put the trussed chicken he’d left on the counter on top of all the vegetables and slid it into the oven. 

“I don’t have time.” Graves gestured to the suitcase. “I’m leaving for Europe tonight.”

“Gelbert--”

“Gellert Grindelwald. A friend of mine from the war is heading the task force. He wants me there.” Graves shrugged. “It’s prestigious work and it’ll be good to see him, but…”

“I’ll keep an eye on Credence if you’d like,” Niall offered. 

“Or I can,” Bree said. “He might be more at ease with someone who isn’t in a uniform.” 

Graves shook his head. “It’s not necessary. I asked one of my coworkers to check on him. He knows her a little already. But thank you.” 

They were quiet for a moment besides the clinking of silverware as Niall set the table before Graves finally spoke again. “If something happens to me, no one will tell you.” 

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Breanna said.

“I don’t know that,” Graves said. “Grindelwald is one of the strongest wizards of our time. He’s smart and his followers are fanatics.” He shook his head. “I should be gone for two months. Three at the most. If you don’t hear from me…” 

“We will. Because I’m not explaining to Becca that her uncle Perce got killed by a pineapple,” Niall answered. “And you still need to meet Evan.” 

Graves smiled faintly, then checked his pocket watch. “I should go or I’ll miss the Portkey.” 

Niall didn’t even bother asking. “Be safe.”

Graves nodded. “You too,” he said and vanished. 

 

Four months passed. There was no word from Graves. “The task force must still be in Europe,” he told Breanna and she nodded like she believed him. 

On August 10th, it had been five months to the day. It was sweltering; every window in the station was open and Niall had changed his sweat-soaked undershirt once already by the time he finished his shift and stepped out into the early evening air. He’d been thinking about Graves; his captain was asking questions about why this blond man with the Eastern European name was still on their lookout list and there were strange things happening in the city, reports of a black cloud that demolished houses and was sometimes spotted in unused parts of the subway. If anything sounded like something Graves needed to know about, that certainly did. Niall had almost been afraid to try, but now... 

He stepped into the alleyway beside the station, leaned back against the cool brick and pressed his thumb against the panther sigil. He left it there for a long moment, waiting for the rush of air, the swirl of black smoke, but there was nothing, just the oppressive heat of August in the city. 

“Shit.” Niall said and closed his eyes. He stayed there for a long moment, unsure if he was processing that Graves was _gone_ or hoping desperately that the man would appear, grousing _Really, Niall. I was in a meeting with the President. Did you get shot again?_

“Shit,” he said again. It seemed impossible that a man like that could just...be gone. Someone who could appear out of nothing, yank a shotgun out of man’s hand and field strip it in mid-air with a word and a glance. Who could pull a bullet out of Niall’s lung and close the wound back up again as if nothing had ever happened. 

Sweat stung Niall’s eyes and he wiped at them with the back of his hand. He pushed away from the brick wall and started to walk. It wasn’t until he was nearly there that he realized his feet were taking him to Pike Street and the Second Salemer Church. If Graves wasn’t gone, maybe Credence Barebone would know what had happened. If he was, then Niall would take up what Graves had wanted done. He couldn’t give the Salemer boy the wizarding world, not like Graves might have been able to do, but he could give the brother and sister a way to escape the hell they were in. 

When he reached the church, he wasn’t expecting to find the boy immediately. And he wasn’t expecting to find him with Graves. The two stood in the alley close together, their backs mostly to Niall, but he’d recognize that silk-trimmed coat anywhere. 

“Percival.” 

Graves turned and the ring on Niall’s left hand went inexplicably hot. His head started to hurt and he took a step back, suddenly ill-at-ease. 

“Niall.” The heat faded from the ring but the headache did not. Graves said something quietly to Credence and the younger man left, going back into the church through a side door. 

“I don’t…you were supposed to be back months ago. I thought…” It was hard to think; the headache was sudden and intense. 

“The task force kept me longer in Europe than I expected. I was just on my way to see you actually. And my godson.” 

It took all of Niall’s distracted brain to keep his features still. Something was wrong. Becca had taken a copy of Chretien de Troyes’ Arthurian romances out of the library and had loved the idea of giving Evan one of their names. Given that the actually _knew_ a Percival, the choice had seemed inevitable. But they hadn’t told Graves that they’d given Evan the middle name ‘Percival’ before he’d left. They’d meant to, but Evan had been sleeping and Becca was teething. Graves was in his head; he knew the man could read minds. He’d done it before, but why now? 

“Yes,” Niall said and forced a smile as he lied. “Ian Percival.” 

The pleasantness drained from Graves’ face. “You’re too damn keen for a Muggle, you know that?” he said and went for his wand. 

The ring on Niall’s finger seared so hot it must have burnt skin and Graves was saying something that _sounded_ like but couldn’t possibly be “abracadabra” and the ebony wand exploded in a shower of sparks and splinters. 

Niall ran for his life. He ran until the wedding band finally stopped being hot before collapsing against a building, panting and sweating in the hot summer evening. The wedding ring wasn’t hot any more, but his hand still stung. It took him a long moment to work the piece of jewelry off with shaking hands and reveal the burned red skin underneath. 

He didn’t understand what had just happened besides the fact that Graves was somehow dangerous now. Or whatever Graves had become. He’d seen men have their personalities change in a war-- head wounds or simply having seen too much-- but that extreme? And what the hell was a Muggle? What had that spell been and what had happened to his wand?

He didn’t understand. But he couldn’t risk his family. He dropped the wedding band in the sewer grate and then took a pocket knife to his holster, carefully excising the panther sigil. When he finally made it home to a frantic Breanna, he did the same with her wedding band. 

Percival Graves may have always been the Devil, but so was this stranger, and Niall much preferred the Devil he had known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Macushla_ is an Irish endearment, roughly "my darling."
> 
> Room cooling systems were not invented until 1929 and inexpensive window units weren’t available until 1947. Niall just has to suffer. 
> 
> Let me know what you think the comments or hit me up at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/


	5. December 1926

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall's captain was pale and sweating with fear, terrified by the destructive black mass. Niall swallowed against a cold lump in his throat. That was the same terror he’d felt when Graves had first appeared in his office, but increased a thousandfold. Graves had been a man. He had a voice you could reason with and a face you could learn to trust. That cloud had neither and if Niall’s reaction to Graves had been to cross himself and go for his pistol, everyone else's reaction to this would be exponentially worse. People were going to start dying unless he did something. Soon.

Niall avoided Pike Street. Maybe it was cowardly. He knew he was leaving Credence Barebone and his little sister to fend for themselves with this other Graves, but he had a wife and two children of his own to protect. 

Christ. How was he ever going to explain Evan’s middle name to him now?

Staying away only worked for so long. On December 7th, Niall had agreed to take the night shift so that the other lieutenant could travel to visit an ill relative in New Jersey. He wasn’t used to the nightshift anymore. It was only midnight and he was already on his second cup of coffee. 

The station was nearly deserted; the Sixth Ward was stretched thin between their standard duties and having to provide security for Senator Shaw’s funeral. Henry Shaw Sr. was shrieking for police protection, rattled by whatever terrible thing had killed his son and no captain in their right mind wanted to piss off the man wielding New York City’s largest newspaper. 

He wished he could still talk to Graves. He somehow doubted that a service pistol would do much good against a black cloud that burned people from the inside out.

“Hey Cavanaugh. Got a call out. Building collapsed on Allen Street.” 

“Chinatown?”

“Just outside.” 

Niall sighed and stood up from the desk. “Kit up, let’s go.” 

 

This wasn’t Allen Street. This was the south end of Allen Street, south of Chinatown and Niall briefly wanted to strangle whoever had called in the wrong address. This was Pike Street and the Second Salemer Church stood in ruins. Niall helped one of his men carry out the body of a young woman in her twenties. She’d been crushed by a falling beam as far as Niall could tell, but her mother---Niall had no explanation for the pattern of the scarring on her face.

This wasn’t right. “There should be two more,” he called out to his squad. “A girl-- eight or nine-- and a man. About twenty-one, dark hair.”

Niall’s corporal went to the police telephone a few blocks away. They needed an ambulance to pick up the bodies. The rest of them searched, shining flashlights under beams and squeezing through the wreckage. Niall called for Modesty and Credence a few times, but there wasn’t any response. Maybe they just hadn’t been home or they’d escaped the wreckage and fled to safety. 

The corporal came back at a run. “Orders from up top. Leave the vics; there’s an ambulance coming, but they want all hands at City Hall. Something’s real balled up.” 

Niall swore. “Put them inside the door at least; find something to cover them with.” He didn’t like it. What the hell was going on? What had gone so wrong that they were leaving bodies unattended? 

When they got to City Hall, he understood. A shimmering golden dome blocked off the building and its subway access. Faintly visible through the light, he saw men and women with wands maintaining it. Niall reached for his holster almost by instinct. What the hell were Graves’ people doing? 

But Graves was already there. He could see the other man through the barrier, snapping out orders, directing the men and women maintaining the golden light. Shit. Niall ducked behind a car, not wanting to be seen. His heart was hammering in his chest. 

“Cavanaugh?” his corporal asked.

“Go...go report in to the captain. See what he wants you to do.” He glanced over the car. Graves was still there, conferring with an older brunette woman for a moment. She went back to the barrier and Graves descended into the subway. Niall’s hands were shaking. Half the city’s police force was here. So was Shaw Sr. with what looked like his entire newspaper staff. Graves had been so adamant about secrecy, but something was wrong right now and something was wrong with _Graves_ and none of the witches in their long brown coats and fedoras seemed to have noticed. 

There was a crack of gunfire; someone had shot at the barrier. Niall looked around, trying to track the shot. His own goddamn captain had men forming up.

Niall ran over. “Sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“You got any sort of explanation otherwise, Cavanaugh? They’ve taken City Hall!” 

“Has anyone tried to talk to them?” 

“You wanna negotiate with these freaks?”

Niall was about to answer when the subway station blew itself apart, sending brick and metal showering everywhere. He ducked behind another squad car and covered his head from the debris. An earthshaking howl nearly deafened him as a black mass tore out of the ground. It flung itself against a half-built skyscraper, scrabbling up it like a feral animal desperate to escape. Onlookers panicked and fled as the girders and scaffolding groaned and swayed dangerously. 

The black cloud collided with the roof of the barrier before crashing back down to earth. The captain had ducked down behind the same car as Niall. His cap had come off and he was pale and sweating with fear. Niall swallowed against a cold lump in his throat. That was the same terror he’d felt when Graves had first appeared in his office, but increased a thousandfold. Graves had been a man. He had a voice you could reason with and a face you could learn to trust. That cloud had neither and if Niall’s reaction to Graves had been to cross himself and go for his pistol, everyone else's reaction to this would be exponentially worse. People were going to start dying unless he did something. Soon. 

He ran behind the squad cars until he found the older woman Graves had been speaking to. She was near the edge of the crowd. Niall crouched by the last squad car for a moment. He took a deep breath and crossed himself and hoped to God he could still be Lucky Cavanaugh without Graves’ help. 

“Hey!” he called, stepping out from behind the car and walking towards the barrier. “Hey! I want to talk to you!”

The woman’s wand came to bear on his chest. He stopped and held his hands out to either side. He was in the middle of no-man’s-land again, the empty space between the police and the barrier that no one wanted to cross. She or any of the other witches watching now could kill him in a second. 

“I saw you talking to Percival.” 

The woman’s wand flicked once and Niall hurtled forward so fast his head whipped back. He was standing on the edge of the golden barrier now. It hissed and crackled like lightning and Niall struggled to pull away from it but an invisible force held him. 

“How the hell do you know that name?” she said. “There’s no way--”

Niall talked fast. “I do. I swear to God I do. His full name is Percival Graves. He has a niece named Izzy. He wasn’t there when she was born ‘cause he was already in Europe. His brother Cador died on the Lusitania. His family calls him Perce ‘cause Cador couldn’t say Percival right.” He was panting. He couldn’t look over his shoulder but he knew this looked like an act of aggression and if he didn’t pull this off, he would be the spark that set off this powder keg. “Please. Please believe me.” 

The woman lowered her wand and stepped through the barrier; the golden energy parted around her skin until she stood exposed in no man’s land as well. Niall started to breathe again. His captain was screaming at him in the distance but Niall ignored him. The sight of a cop and a witch talking, the idea that this was a negotiation rather than a stand off was catching. The ozone tang of danger was starting to fade. 

“You want to tell me how you know Graves and why your holster’s enchanted?” the witch asked. 

Niall choked slightly. “Oh. Wonderful. It still is.” Well that was horrifying. “That’s not Graves. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but I don’t think you should be taking his orders.”

The woman sputtered. “What?” 

“When he got back from Europe. He wasn’t the same. He didn’t...answer that enchantment. He tried to kill me. I think.” Niall didn’t understand how any of this worked. He was clutching at straws. “Didn’t you notice anything different?”

The witch appeared unconvinced.

“He would have needed a new wand. He tried to cast this spell and it broke. I think. Are they supposed to explode?” 

Her expression was one of growing confusion. “Can you describe the spell? What did you see? What did he say?” 

“Green light? Something like abracadabra?”

Horror replaced the confusion. She turned back to the barrier. “Oakhurst. Get Cortez and get down there at once. Picquery needs to know.” 

A younger man bolted away from the barrier as if on command. The witch turned back to Niall. “My name is Septima Fletcher. I’m one of Graves’ Aurors and I should probably thank you now because I doubt I’m going to feel like thanking you later.” She held out her hand. 

Niall shook it. “Niall Cavanaugh. Sixth Ward. NYPD. Apparently the bearer of bad tidings.” 

She glanced at the crowds. “How likely am I to get shot?”

“Less likely than you were two minutes ago.” Niall glanced at his colleagues. There were still a few guns pointed their direction, but his captain was in a furious discussion with his equivalent from the Fifth Ward. “Especially now that there’s a pissing match over whose problem this is.” 

Another unearthly howl of pain shook the ground. Niall winced. “Do I want to know what that is?” 

“It’s called an obscurus,” Septima--- because apparently strange names just came with magic-- told him. “When someone suppresses their power out of fear, it can turn into something like that. Destructive, parasitic. There hasn’t been one for nearly three hundred years.”

Niall had a sudden, sickening feeling. “....suppresses their power. Like maybe belonging to a lunatic church that preaches against witchcraft?”

Before Septima could answer, the younger man came running back with two women in tow. One was tall and brown; the other was smaller and blonde. All three looked horrified. 

“Septima.” The younger man was out of breath. “Septima, it’s Gellert Grindelwald. He’s Grindelwald.” 

“What? What do you mean? How long?”

“Since August at least,” Niall said quietly. 

“Polyjuice Potion? But how…” The blonde put a hand over her mouth. 

“He must still be close then,” the third spoke. 

“Niall. Can I have your holster?” Septima said

“What? Why?”

“You said Graves wasn’t answering the enchantment. He probably can’t. Oakhurst, could you do something with it?”

“I could maybe reverse the enchantment; rather than calling Graves to us, I could jury-rig a Portkey that would take us to him.” Niall understood literally nothing of what the young man was saying besides that they might be able to find Graves. 

He unsnapped the holster and gave it to Septima. He left the pistol inside. The idea of how badly things might go if it even looked like he was drawing on her was more nerve-wracking than standing unarmed in no-man’s-land. 

“We can’t just disapparate in front of all these No-Majs!” the taller woman was protesting.

“You just chased an obscurus halfway through the city, Cortez. I think that ship has sailed,” Oakhurst told her even as he knelt on the ground, muttering under his breath and tracing shapes on the holster with his wand. 

“Graves first. Worry about if we’re at war second,” Septima said. 

“Here. It’s ready. Grab hold.” 

“I’m going with you.” Niall said.

“We’re not taking the No-Maj,” Cortez protested. 

Septima simply took Niall with one hand and Oakhurst with the other. There was a sudden lurching sensation, like something had grabbed Niall by the waist. Reality spun and compressed and Niall could hear his own voice yelling in panic and then he was on his knees retching with nausea on someone’s gorgeous hardwood floors. 

“ _Lumos,_ ” came a chorus of voices above him and the darkness lifted. Niall sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth. There were in a house of some kind-- the furniture was elegant, clearly expensive even if it was ill-maintained. Clothes were scattered about and an empty brandy bottle rolled on the floor near an end table. 

“Where are we?” he asked. 

“Percival’s house,” the blond woman answered. She extended her own wand. “ _Hominem revelio_.” A thin light shone from a linen closet in the passage between living room and kitchen. Her voice was shaking. “He can’t be dead; it wouldn’t pick him out otherwise…”

“C’mon.” Cortez walked past her and touched her arm. The two women opened the closet door and their cries of dismay had Niall and the rest of the Aurors rushing after them. Graves sat on the closet floor. He was gaunt. His hair was matted and jaggedly cut; dried blood was crusted over an old wound on his forehead. He had months of beard growth but his eyes were sunken and his lips were cracked and black with dehydration. 

Niall crouched and put two fingers on his friend’s neck. “Percival. C’mon.” The man didn’t respond to the touch or even to his name. He was looking straight through Niall without seeing him. Graves’ pulse was weak and fluttering; Niall could barely feel it. “He needs an ambulance. Or a hospital. Or whatever your equivalent is.” 

“I’ll help you move him.” Cortez knelt next to him. “On three.”

Niall looped one arm under Graves despite the cramped space of the closet and lifted when he was told. Graves seemed to come to life, squirming desperately out of their grip. He went to step back but collapsed. Only then did Niall notice that Graves’ left shin was bent at impossible angle. His foot barely touched the ground. He felt another wave of nausea and had to turn away. 

“The imperius curse,” Septima said. “He’s too dangerous to be moved like this. _Stupefy_.” White light leapt from her wand and Graves slumped, unconscious. 

“What the hell did you do that for?” Niall confronted her.

“There’s a spell that allows you to control someone’s mind. Grindelwald must have used it on Graves so that he would stay here. There’s no telling what other orders he’s under.” Septima gave out commands. “McIlvain and Cortez, get him to Medical. He stays unconscious until someone breaks that curse. Oakhurst, search the house for clues about what Grindelwald was up to.” She glanced at Niall. “I’ll deal with the No-Maj. And no one mentions him. The last thing Graves needs is trouble.” 

There were murmurs of assent. Septima took Niall’s elbow and pulled him away. “He’ll be alright,” she told him softly. “Our healers can do things you can’t imagine.”

“I fucking hope so.” Niall shook his head even as he let himself be guided. “I don’t…” He didn’t even know what to say. He was reeling. Nine months ago Graves had been alive and fretting about leaving Credence to go to Europe. Four months ago he had been dead. Then he had been alive again but _wrong_ and now he was alive but dying, face stolen by some sort of magical fascist and Credence Barebone was a monstrous dark cloud that had murdered a senator. And the _New York Times_ was going to headline with all of this. 

“Where should I take you?” Septima let go of his arm. 

“I guess back to City Hall. I’ve got to explain to my captain. If they haven’t started shooting at each other yet, maybe we can keep this from being a disaster.” 

Septima was looking at the rain. “I don’t think that will be a problem.” 

Niall followed her gaze. “I don’t understand.” 

“They put magic in the rain. I don’t know how they managed it, but it’ll keep everyone from remembering today.” 

“So you don’t need to ball--- to Obliviate an entire city,” Niall said. He shrugged and gave the witch a resigned half-smile. “Guess I’ll just walk home. Save you the trouble of doing the spell.”

Septima looked at him closely. “He was your friend, wasn’t he?” 

Niall nodded. “Yeah. And I know that’s not allowed, but…” 

She held out her hand. “Let me take you home and keep you out of the rain.” She glanced behind them to see the two women disappear with Graves’ broken body. “He’s going to need every friend he has.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter! Potential subtitles for it included: 1) Niall is out of his depth. 2) Oh god please believe me. 3) I've never hated Prohibition quite so much before. 
> 
> Fun historical facts: There are no police radios yet. Chicago will debut the first one-way radio in 1928. The two-way radio that we are familiar with today was introduced in 1933 in Bayonne, New Jersey. 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments or on tumblr at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/


	6. Late December 1926

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves was still impeccably dressed, clean-shaven, undercut perfectly faded, but the silk-trimmed black coat hung loose on his shoulders now. His hair was greyer than Niall remembered; fine silver threads ran from front to back. He clearly wasn’t sleeping. He was leaning heavily on a black walking stick, but he was alive and walking and frankly both of those things were a miracle. 
> 
> “I’m not…” Graves spread his hands helplessly. "It's me. For real. I swear."
> 
> “I know,” Niall answered. He blinked. “You used the door?” 
> 
> “I figured if I apparated into your living room, you might shoot me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graves talks about what happened, so there's references to awful things, but nothing depicted. Precisely one sentence of Gradence, easy enough to skip that line if you don't like it.

It was December 23rd and Niall was highly ranked enough that he could foist working Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off on other people. He’d picked up the few groceries Breanna had asked him before coming home. 

“Hey.” He kissed her. “Sorry I’m late. You should have seen the line.”

“Last minute Christmas errands are always terrible. I wouldn't have asked you, but thought we had more eggs than we did. I promised your mother we would bring eggnog tomorrow.” Breanna took the grocery bag from him. Niall secured his pistol in its locked drawer before crouching down to pick up Rebecca, who’d come running out. He followed Bree back into the kitchen. Evan sat on the floor, banging a wooden spoon against it and gurgling with delight at the noise. 

“Does she want us to bring anything else?” Niall asked.

“I don’t think so. Your brother and his wife ordered a Yule log from some new Polish bakery so they have dessert handled.” Breanna slid the eggs into the refrigerator.

There was a knock on the door. “Expecting anyone?” Niall set Rebecca down on the counter. 

“That might be Mrs. Callahan. I told her she could borrow the folding table.” 

“I’ll get it then. The table’s in the hallway closet, right?” Niall called over his shoulder as he went to the door. When he opened it though, Graves stood there. Niall reflexively tensed. There was no way he could get to his pistol in time…

Then he noticed how haggard Graves looked. He was still impeccably dressed, clean-shaven, undercut perfectly faded, but the silk-trimmed black coat hung loose on his shoulders now. His hair was greyer than Niall remembered; fine silver threads ran from front to back. He clearly wasn’t sleeping. He was leaning heavily on a black walking stick, but he was alive and walking and frankly both of those things were a miracle. 

“I’m not…” Graves spread his hands helplessly. "It's me. For real. I swear."

“I know,” Niall answered. He blinked. “You used the door?” 

“I figured if I apparated into your living room, you might shoot me.” 

“That wasn’t you.” Septima Fletcher had tried to explain---potions or transfiguration--- but either way, he’d known that that something was wrong. He gestured back towards the living room. “Won’t you come in?”

“How did you know?” Graves stepped inside and let Niall close the door behind him. “I...even my Aurors…”

Niall had never seen Graves at a loss for words. The man had always been cocksure, confident, at ease in his own skin, not gaunt and faltering.

“Ain’t their fault, I don’t think,” he said. “I got the idea I wasn’t worth his time to deceive. He got in my head to figure out who I was but he picked up things I hadn’t told you.” Graves looked so worn; maybe it would cheer him up. “We gave Evan your name. Evan Percival Cavanaugh.” 

Graves started to smile but it never reached his eyes. “Shit.” He looked to one side. “That just makes this harder.” He opened his coat and withdrew a different wand than Niall was used to seeing-- a lighter wood with hints of red. 

“Percival, what?” Niall took a step back when the wand came to bear on him. Breanna had come out holding Evan on one hip but she froze in the entryway of the kitchen. 

“I can’t let you remember this--remember me. I nearly got you killed, Niall. Septima told me. You threw out your wedding rings. It’s too much of a danger. _I’m_ too much of a danger. I get people killed.”

This wasn’t about Niall. Or it wasn’t only about Niall. “Credence,” he said quietly. 

Graves flinched. His lips pressed together and he looked to one side. “He’s dead.” He had none of his calm, none of the dry wit. “He trusted me and he’s dead because of it. That bastard went through my head and found someone he could use and...my own fucking Aurors, Niall. My own team killed him and I can’t...I can’t tell them…” 

Confirmed bachelor _bullshit_. “That they killed someone you loved.” Niall stepped forward and pushed Graves’ wand to one side. “Well, I ain’t one of your Aurors.” 

Graves’ wand dropped and his shoulders started to shake. A single broken sob escaped him and Niall couldn’t help it. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the other man. The touch seemed to break the last of Graves’ reserve and he wept. 

Niall’s collar was damp by the time Graves was done. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t apologize.” Niall shook his head. Bree had quietly taken Evan back into the kitchen and given them some privacy, but she came back out now with three placemats rolled around their silverware.

“You’re staying for dinner,” she told Graves. 

“I shouldn’t…”

“Sit.” Bree’s eyes were shiny with tears as well and the older man obeyed. The colcannon and sausage was hardly fit for company, but it was something--- and probably more than Graves had eaten today. The plate that Bree set in front of him had an extra pat of butter nestled into the colcannon and Niall felt a sudden surge of love for his wife. 

Graves had set the wand on the table and Niall glanced at it. He’d supposed that Graves would need a new one, but he’d expected something similar to what he’d had before. 

“Fir.” Graves must have noticed Niall’s curious gaze. “The survivor’s wand. They say the wand chooses the wizard, so this one must have a sick sense of humor.”

“You can come back from this,” Breanna said. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you can.”

“I…” Graves changed the topic. “So whose idea was inflicting my name on Evan?”

“Both of ours,” Niall let him off the hook. They’d talk later. “Bree was reading Sir Thomas Malory---”

“--Chretien de Troyes--”

“--Chretien de Troyes and she liked all the names.” He shrugged. “And we know a Percival, so…”

“And making it a middle name means Becca has less of a mouthful to pronounce,” Graves concluded. 

After dinner, Niall gathered the dishes. “Percival, you’re on drying duty.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Graves followed him into the kitchen. Niall ran a sink of hot water and handed a flour sack towel to the older man. The room was mostly silent besides the clinking of glasses in the sink and Graves occasionally asking where a pot or plate went. 

Niall debated how to begin. “We were at the Second Somme Offensive, you know. My unit-- the 106th. Only for about a month, but still. We’d been on reconnaissance at Ypres, laying the groundwork for the Brits, so the Somme was our first time in the trenches.” Even now, it made Niall shudder. “I hated it. The mud and the rats---there were _so_ many rats and I swear to God, they knew when we were about to get shelled. When we went after St. Quentin’s Canal, my lieutenant got his head blown off right in front of me. I had nightmares about it for years.” 

“Where are you going with this?” Graves asked. 

“Talking to my sister, my flatmate, Bree. It helped. I think it was the only way I got my head out of the trenches.” Niall shrugged and then glanced up at him. “You say you can’t tell your Aurors about Credence. I doubt you want to tell ‘em that you aren’t sleeping or eating either-- yes, I can tell and so can Bree. I guess where I’m going is…do you have anyone you _can_ talk to?” 

Graves didn’t answer but his hands went still on the dish he was drying. 

Niall had guessed as much. “That dish goes in the cabinet to your right,” he said and left the kitchen, heading towards the linen closet. When he returned, he thumped a bottle of whiskey down on the counter between himself and Graves. “You talk. I listen. Both of us get drunk enough to not remember it.” 

Graves arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you lot still have Prohibition?”

“Yes. We do. But my captain elected not to notice Red Jacob’s contraband disappearing once the bastard was in jail for good. So this is as much your whiskey as mine.” 

They drank. Graves talked. Niall listened. The older man talked first about being taken in Europe--- desperately piecing together clues and following Gellert Grindelwald to a manor in northern Germany, only to be ambushed. 

“I thought we were all...oh god. Thes.” 

Listening to Graves realize that he didn’t know if his best friend was alive or dead and that Theseus Scamander might have died thinking Graves had betrayed him had to rank among the worst experiences of Niall’s life. Graves barely remembered anything from May to December; the Imperius Curse was a dream-like haze that rarely parted. Still, he knew he’d docilely answered every question, betrayed every secret, unraveled every ward.

“They didn’t notice. A mass murderer, a fascist, Europe’s most wanted Dark wizard and they didn’t even notice. Six months.” Graves’ voice was unsteady and rambling from the whiskey. “It took Theseus’ little brother, some junior Auror I don’t even know and a goddamn No-Maj-- I’m sorry. That’s not fair. You and Jacob Kowalski are both smart as hell. Smarter than anyone I’ve ever trained apparently.” 

Now was probably not time to ask who the hell Jacob Kowalski was. 

“I just sounded like him too. ‘A goddamn No-Maj.’ Is that why? Are we that similar? That people could…” Graves’ voice broke. 

Niall shook his head to clear it. Thinking was harder now; he didn’t know Gellert Grindelwald besides the terrifying thirty seconds in the church alley and what Graves--- and Septima-- had told him. But the two were innately, inherently different and he struggled to articulate it in a way that Graves would understand. 

“So...the wand chooses the wizard, right? Whatever that means.” 

“Yes. They’re semi-sentient. Different woods, different cores. A wand that’s...inimical to you will refuse to perform magic. Most wizards will feel right away if the right wand is---I’m rambling. You don’t care about wandlore. Where are you going with this?”

If Niall wasn’t trying to convince the older man that he didn’t in any way resemble a mass murderer, he might have been amused that drunk Graves apparently _pontificated_. “Okay. Okay. So your wand is like you, right? And it won’t do magic for someone who isn’t like you. That’s the idea.” 

“Yes. And my wand did ma--”

“Blew up.” 

Graves blinked. “What?”

“It blew up. Grendel---Green-- Pineapple tried to use it on me. It blew up.” Niall gestured widely and nearly knocked over the bottle of whiskey. “So if it wouldn’t work for him, then you ain’t like him.”

“I...Fair.” 

Niall reached across the table to where the slender fir wand rested and thumped it on the table in front of Graves. “Also. Survivor,” he concluded. “So there.” 

 

Sometime around midnight, Breanna came in to tell them goodnight. 

“Don’t stand up; you’ll fall over,” she told Niall and kissed him. “You make him stay here; he shouldn’t be…disappearing drunk or whatever it is he does.” 

Niall kissed her back. “Love you. Night, Bree.”

She kissed Graves on the corner of his mouth just as fiercely. “You are not alone, you hear me?” she said. “Goodnight.” 

She left and Graves touched his mouth quizzically, glancing after her. “She…”

Niall shrugged expansively. “You’re family,” he said, more than a little bit drunk, and Graves wept again. 

 

Niall’s hangover the next morning made him reconsider all his previous animus against Prohibition and the increase in crime that had come with it. Liquor was absolutely the Devil’s drink.

The cop had eventually insisted that Graves sleep on the couch and the older man hadn’t argued. 

“My house, Niall. I look around it and I can’t help but think ‘Is this where he sat to put on my shoes? Did he use these glasses? Did he sit here when he drank my brandy?’”

Niall hadn’t known what to to say at the naked pain so he had settled on nonsense instead. “Don’t you lot have Prohibition?”

“No. Life’s...hard enough without your Puritan bullshit.” That he was _Catholic_ and thus had as little to do with ‘Puritan bullshit’ as Graves did had seemed irrelevant at the time, so Niall had just gone to bed. 

The two men hadn’t quite gotten to neither of them remembering, but they’d made a valiant attempt. Right now, however, even the sound of Bree making coffee in the other room made Niall’s head hurt and the scent of it made his stomach churn. 

Graves’ eyes opened on the couch and he groaned. “Oh, to hell with this.” He disappeared into a puff of black smoke, only to reappear approximately fifteen minutes later with two vials of a foamy green liquid. 

“Drink,” he said, handing it to Niall. “Hangover potion.” 

“You are a gentleman and a scholar.” Niall didn’t argue and knocked it back; No-Maj or not, the magic worked. His head cleared; his stomach settled. 

Breanna made eggs and bacon and put a third egg on Percival’s plate without asking him. “Do you have a place to go for Christmas?”

“Because otherwise you’re coming with us and she’s passing you off as a cousin from Boston,” Niall translated. 

“Because Percival Gondulphus Graves sounds so Irish,” Graves commented. 

Bree smiled in a way that Niall knew meant mischief. “No, but Percy Lynch sounds like a lad from Ulster.” 

Niall couldn’t help it; the indignant look on Graves’ gaunt face was priceless. It made the older man look like himself again. He started to laugh and after a long moment, Graves did too. It was rusty and ragged and almost sounded like Graves was surprised by it, but it happened. 

“I’m going to my sister’s,” he finally answered. “Staying through the New Year.” 

“That’s good. You shouldn’t be alone.” 

Graves looked down at the eggs on his plate, the faint sticky mark on the table where they finally _had_ spilled the whiskey. “I get the feeling that I’m not.” 

Graves didn’t leave right away. He charmed the dishes to clean themselves. Afterwards, he sat on the floor to help Bree wrap presents. Becca climbed into his lap and insisted (loudly and repeatedly) that Uncle Perce tell her a story. The older man obliged with an elaborate narrative about how Santa Claus’ sleigh was constructed and why it functioned. Niall was _mostly_ sure that Graves was making it up. 

He seemed better when he was engaged, though his face was still gaunt and haggard. He lost the thread of the story he was telling Becca halfway through; staring into empty air until Becca reached up and tapped his face. “Perce?” 

It wasn’t perfect. It wouldn’t be perfect for a long time, if ever, but it was a start. 

Around noon, Graves finally rose. “I ought to get going. I should shave and pack some things before I go to my sister’s.” 

“We’ll see you in the New Year?” Niall asked. 

Graves nodded. “You will. And here.” The older man dropped something into Niall’s palm, tickling the skin strangely and closed his hand around it. “I’ll see you in the New Year,” he promised again and vanished. 

Niall blinked and opened his hand, looking down at it. He was holding two thin gold wedding bands and a pearl-and-sapphire engagement ring. 

Written on the same palm in a sweeping, elegant script was _Thank you. P._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From sometime in the 1800s until about the 1950s, flour was sold in cotton sacks. People would cut the sacks apart and use them as dish towels; companies responded to this use by putting bright patterns, flowers, etc on their sacking to get customers to buy their particular brand. 
> 
> Colcannon is delicious and I am 100% team Bree. “Something is wrong; I will fix it with food.” Also team drunk!Graves. Give me enough wine enough and I will tell you everything you never wanted to know about grape varietals and medieval saints. 
> 
> That's it folks! There may be a funny/fluffy sequel at some point (I am tickled pink by the idea of Niall teaching Graves to drive) but no guarantees of when that will be. Let me know what you think in the comments or at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> I also have a much darker AU currently ongoing in which Credence is a Scourer! http://archiveofourown.org/works/9481292/chapters/21453251

**Author's Note:**

> Some fun historical notes!  
> Niall's unit when he fought in the first world war was the 106th Infantry Regiment.  
> The love letter he'd copied out is Captain Wentworth's letter to Anne Elliott in _Persuasion_.  
>  $40 in 1926 is the equivalent of roughly $500 now.  
> Let me know what you think in the comments or hit me up at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/


End file.
